Teachers Pet
by scrapbullet
Summary: Alastair shows Dean what it means to torture, and Dean... well, Dean is just an excellent pupil. Contains dark themes and torture.


**Disclaimer; **Supernatural and the characters portrayed therein are the property of Kripke and all those associated.

Teachers Pet

"You have... _such promise_," Alastair utters, voice filled to the brim with vicious intent, "I want you to put your skills to good use." Once, Dean had found Alastair's touch to be abhorring, yet now all he can do is lean into the good graces of his new master, and revel in it, delighted. The sin of this Hell has transformed Dean Winchester into something feared; something beautiful... something that Alastair can be proud of.

Gripping the hot brand, Dean wields it with all the skill of someone who has been doing this for years. The hot metal hurts him none, and yet his half-clothed form is littered with lurid scars. His eyes are deep and fathomless, no hint of mercy residing in them to give the boy – _his prey_ – an ounce of hope.

The folds of sanity have slipped away from Dean, as easily as a knife slides through butter.

The kiss of fire to the vulnerable flesh behind the knee's is purifying, stripping flesh from bone with a tenderness reminiscent of a mothers love. The scream that pierces the air is just as satisfying to Dean, for it, alongside the stark scent of cooking meat, is what he has been longing to hear for so long. It causes his heart to quicken with an incomprehensible thrill, mouth watering.

"I always knew you were born to do great things, Dean," Alastair is close, close enough to drag his poisonous, demonic tongue up along the arc of Deans' throat, his words a deep and lusty purr, "Make him _scream..._" and when the song escalates, the tortured souls voice cracking, hoarse from sobbing, Alastair is pleased, "isn't it sweet? And it's all for you..."

His victim; limbs stretched as taut as his sanity, has tears in his eyes. They glisten and entice Dean, and the longing to consume them is just too much to bear.

The tears are salty on his tongue, and filled with sorrow.

Just the way he likes it.

Agony is prominent on the boys' face, cheeks stained with blood and tears. This is what Dean now see's as beauty, and with Alastair pressed tight against his back, hand clasped around his own and guiding the hot brand, he's never felt so alive.

Useful.

_Wanted._

"_For me..._" he echoes, head cocked to one side as if to admire his skill. The game has only just begun, after all, and there's so much that Dean still wishes to do... and as if his very thoughts have been read like an open book, the hot brand is replaced by the sheer sleekness of a knife, its weight light and balanced.

The first cut is nirvana.

The blood trickles down the boys' sternum in a slow rivulet, and the taste of it is so much more fulfilling than the tears. Its thick copper tang explodes across his taste-buds, warming from the inside out. The boy, with his constant tears of fear and agony, is glassy-eyed, lost in the throes of his personal Hell, glad only for the momentary respite that comes soon after.

When Alastair presses hot, chapped lips to his own to share the taste, Deans' heart bombs heavily in his chest.

But with the first taste the bud of evil in his gullet begins to grow, its roots secured in his soul and reaching upward, baying for blood. He can't stop himself. Each cut is art, each stab into soft, vulnerable organs is as delightful as the sure and confident hands that guide him. Those wonderful screams taper off into breathless pleas... then to heaving sobs... then to nothing as his talent skins the very flesh from the prey's bones.

But even then, unconsciousness does not last for long.

"You're learning..." Alastair murmurs into his ear, their hands coated in crimson. Deans' breath comes short, filled to the brim with excitement and adrenaline, only able to lean back and bask in the glory of it all. His laugh is a purr, broken and bleeding and belying the state of his own sanity, grasping his mentor in all things and devouring those lips with all the blessed mockery of love that Dean possesses, "my apt pupil."

And when his victim's eyes open, unseeing, as broken as the man that had tortured him, Dean can only smile, satisfied.

For the face that stares back at him is kin, is _brother._


End file.
